


At the Bottom of a Dogpile

by PheroMonster



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Actual Hockey Is Actually Played, Canon Compliant, Cat Logic, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kent's First Haus Visit, LVA vs PVD, Light Angst, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Kit Purrson, Past Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann, parse positive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-19 06:46:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11307927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PheroMonster/pseuds/PheroMonster
Summary: It's not the answer she hoped for, though she's not sure what is, exactly.  Treats, maybe.  A better head scratch.  She'll take anything at this point, because the man in her house feels like a stranger.





	1. "Looks to Me Like You're on the Wrong Side of the River"

**Author's Note:**

> These characters are not mine. But come on, Larry, you already knew that.

She's not sure what's happened, exactly, only that there's been a change.  His mannerisms are all wrong now.  The same actions are repeated when he's home, which she supposes is fine; she still receives a clean dish full of the moist food she likes twice a day.  The first meal takes place when the sky's barely light, the second when it's all gone dark again - and she appreciates that, knows she can rely on it like clockwork.  
  
The body language has shifted uncomfortably, though, and Kit takes offense to that.  She hasn't done anything wrong, she never does.  Well.  There was a time when she liked falling asleep in that big squishy bag the man's always carrying around with him, the one that smells funny when he leaves the flap open.  Once, she'd woken to the world moving, had yowled her disapproval.  The man wasn't happy, either; mean noises came from his face and he lifted her out instantly, which was just as well.  She was pleased to go home, didn't realize that everything on the outside would change if you spent too much time asleep in the bag.  
  
It's an interesting nest of objects in there, some hard and unpleasant, others smooth and fun to rub her face on.  Sometimes everything is warm and clean inside, but Kit likes it better when it's not.  The scent is more fascinating, like adrenaline and pheromone, and she wonders what the man must be doing all day, why he's running from something all the time.  She's fairly certain, after all, that there aren't any predators here in the house.  
  
She thinks the smell is extra potent this evening.  The man's been gone for a few days, which happens a lot, but he's changed since returning - and that part's new.  She wonders if he finally got too close to whatever animal's been chasing him.  
  
"Mew," she says, propping her feet up against his knees.  She hopes that he knows she misses him when he's gone.

The man leans forward stiffly and lifts her high against his chest, leaning back.  He pets her, but it's without any of the usual quality.  It's a little detached and automatic, which Kit sternly aims to correct with flattened ears and her fiercest glare.  When the soft rubbing behind her shoulders stops altogether, she turns around and nips his hand.

He mutters a sound that must be disagreement, because Kit's being moved off his lap and relocated to the floor.  _Fine._   It's not like she's been eagerly awaiting his return or anything, looking forward to spending time with him again - nope, she doesn't care.  If he doesn't care, she doesn't care.

Except she totally cares.

She jumps onto the sofa on her own this time, sits next to this man, paws at the dark fabric on his legs.  _How was your day?_ she thinks.  "Mewhr!" she says instead.

He only sighs, tilts his head into the pillows.  It's not the answer she hoped for, though she's not sure what is, exactly.  Treats, maybe.  A better head scratch.  She'll take anything at this point, because the man in her house feels like a stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that was quite a quick chapter. Nah, that won't be the norm. (How can you trust me? Well, I've already finished with it. I like to be a tease, though.)
> 
> This is my first foray into publishing a fanwork here, btw. It started because I've been writing something else, and working on something like this - for fun - was a good way to warm up/get all the juices going. It's also been wildly cathartic, therapeutic, etc. Might as well share it, right?
> 
> More soon.


	2. "Anything Happens in That Five Minutes, and I'm Yours"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This place is temporary - this room they'll never see again, these streetlamps that matter only to travelers in the darkness.

They're only seventeen.  Just kids.  And technically they're not supposed to be drinking, as the legal age in Montréal is eighteen and they've got practice in the morning anyway, but here they are.  Laughing over a bottle of stolen whisky in a dark hotel room, like it's the greatest and most wonderful secret in the world.  
  
"I can't believe you took it," sighs Kent, eyes lit up and satisfied like he's already had some.  He's telling the truth, too; his surprise is real.  Jack never plays the part of instigator, of opportunist or joker.  He's always been the dutiful workhorse, putting in more than his fair share of sweat and pain just so that he might be left alone later, free from scrutiny.  _That's_ how Jack has fun.  It's imitation fun - just relief, really, not the real deal in Kent's opinion.  
  
Jack practically giggles when he holds the bottle up to the faint light spilling in from the parking lot outside.  He kicks the curtain with his foot, letting more of the amber-hued nocturnal ambience into the room.  
  
The liquid matches the light when it sloshes around, shining invitingly.  
  
"Do you think he'll notice?" Kent whispers.  It is, after all, quite a large bottle.  He knows nothing about good brands or expensive taste, has no way of knowing yet, but the label is large and smooth and fancy-as-fuck, and considering the source -  
  
"You'd be surprised how much he doesn't notice," mutters Jack, whose tone barely conceals measured resentment.  
  
Kent doesn't know what to say, but he knows what to do.  He grabs the modest paper cups from the nightstand between their beds, unceremoniously ripping off their feeble plastic covers and thrusting one into Jack's free hand.  When Jack rewards him with a lazy grin, he knows he's done his job.  
  
They fill their cups halfway, uncertain amateurs that they are, and bump them together roughly in a gesture of celebration.  "Thanks, Bad Bob!" Kent says, giving a little nod toward the bottle as Jack snorts.  Then they're drinking and it burns - it burns _so much_ , Jesus - but they've entered an unspoken competition and neither breathes again until his comically mismatched paper container is empty.  
  
" _Crisse_ ," hisses Jack, face flushing pink.  "How much was that?  One shot?"  
  
Kent eyeballs one of the cups and shakes his head.  "Probably a double."  
  
A silence settles over them, comfortably soft and secret like the velvety atmosphere of nighttime itself.  This place is temporary - this room they'll never see again, these streetlamps that matter only to travelers in the darkness.  This window, revealing a paved grid of lonely vehicles, parked arbitrarily throughout.  This paper cup in Kent's right hand, smelling sweet and awful at the same time.  
  
"Hey," Kent hears himself saying out loud.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Wanna do another?"  
  
So of course they do, and it burns less than the first time but still cuts a blazing trail deep into Kent's stomach, pooling there and spreading to his blood.  He can feel it slowly rolling through his veins, rising into the fevered skin of his face.  Suddenly every part of him seems like it's overheating, so he draws himself into a kneeling position and shrugs away his hooded sweatshirt, considers pulling off his jeans.  Stops.  
  
Jack's staring at him, apparently confused.  Kent only says, "What?  It's hot in here," and reaches for the bottle a third time, pouring for the both of them.  
  
Neither he nor Jack drinks right away.  
  
They sit together on the floor, reclining against the side of Kent's chosen bed (always the one nearest the window, as Jack's is always nearest the bathroom), staring out over the parking lot and the vacant, ghostlike nature of an unfamiliar, sleeping city.  
  
"What's your favorite color?" probes Kent without preface.  
  
"What?  Why?"  
  
"Just tell me."  
  
"Red, I guess."  Jack turns his head to level his gaze with Kent's, raising a dark eyebrow and smiling warmly.  "You're so weird, man."  
  
Kent's never heard Jack sound as affectionate as he does now.  
  
"Red's pretty good, yeah," he agrees.  "It's intense, you know?  Feels like winning."  He lifts his cup and taps it gently against Jack's, a tacit go-ahead signal that has both of them expeditiously swallowing their third round and tossing the used cups over their shoulders.  
  
Kent doesn't know why he does it, hasn't thought about it until it's happening.  He feels it with his hands, sees it with his eyes, knows it's real because his senses tell him so with vivid clarity. Still - _fuck_ , it's like he's on another plane of existence, like he's fallen into some precious, perfect void and part of him wonders whether he can die here.  
  
He's climbed onto Jack's lap, which is warm like the rest of him and oddly exhilarating, the kind of thing that seems like it ought to be a big deal.  There's no protest; they're facing each other and Jack's not telling him to go fuck himself, he's just staring with wide, heavy eyes and grinning.  Maybe he thinks Kent's joking around.  
  
Kent isn't.  Not even a little.  
  
"What's yours?" says Jack abruptly.  
  
Kent leans away and arches one perfectly narrow eyebrow in lieu of verbally asking for clarification.  
  
"Your favorite color."  
  
"Oh," Kent sighs, angling his body forward again.  "Black."  Then he tilts his face toward Jack's and tastes his best friend's mouth for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Kit sources Las Vegas for local ingredients.


	3. "We Can't Stop Here; This Is Bat Country"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kit slowly rises up, cautiously shifting her center of gravity forward but keeping her shoulders low, turning herself into a waiting projectile. All the while, she listens intently, determined.

It's been three days, and Kit's tolerance for this nonsense is waning.  The man who keeps this place, the man who provides her with food, the man who usually plays with her and gives her tiny bags filled with a marvelous, fragrant grass - _that_ man is simply not the same.  
  
He mostly smells the same though, except for the fear-scent that has lingered around him, around the forbidden mystery bag he carries.  It's a sharp odor that makes Kit nervous.  It comes from his skin, hot by his hairline and tempered only a little by the fabric on the rest of his body.  
  
Only when she's consumed her evening meal does she stop to consider the fact that she hasn't seen the man eating much.  What if he's starving?  What if he's giving all of the rations to her instead?   
  
Kit pauses in the middle of lapping at her water bowl, staring intently at a naked spot on the far wall.  She thinks furiously, certain that it all makes sense.  It would explain the dark circles below the man's eyes and his uncharacteristically drowsy disposition.  It would also account for the diminished affection and playtime - no energy.  
  
_I can fix that_ , Kit thinks confidently.  _If he won't do it for himself, maybe I can do it for him._    
  
She's almost relieved at the revelation, really, because she's been endowed with a gift that remains alive and well in spite of living indoors.  She flexes her paws eagerly and decides to get to work.  
  
It's a perfect plan, except for the part where absolutely zero targets live inside such a clean, artificial space.  There's no prey to be found, no rodents, no birds, not even an especially large insect.  The disappointment feels heavy, though she knows she's been stupid - she'd simply forgotten, or maybe never realized before, that she lives alone with this man in a place where no other creatures share the resources.  
  
So she slouches off to lie down by the see-through door in the big room, the room with all the nice places to sit.  Kit knows that it's a door, not a window, because she's seen the man open it, walk through it, and sit down outside of it on countless occasions - probably so that he could look at all the shiny lights below (and there are many, Kit doesn't blame him).   
  
Sometimes the man even leaves the door cracked apart at night, which lets in all kinds of interesting smells.  Kit loves it when he does this, always makes a point of lying next to it or squeezing through and lying on the warm surfaces just beyond it.  It's marvelous, the feast of strange aromas that float away from the equally strange noises underneath them.  Many of the smells are new, several of them have no meaning, and some of them are as old as time.  
  
Some of the smells are prey.  
  
Instantly revitalized, Kit sits upright and presses her paws to the glass.  
  
Nothing happens because the man isn't in this room yet; he's gone somewhere else after putting her food out.  She leans away from the door again and huffs impatiently.  She detests waiting, but she knows she must be strong when the man isn't feeling well, knows she'll try her best.   
  
A dust mote lands delicately on one whisker, which twitches involuntarily and prompts a noisy sneeze, startling Kit so much that she rolls backward and smacks her face gracelessly against the glass.  
  
_I hate everything_ , she thinks bitterly, emitting an agitated "Mehhhhrr!" at no one.   
  
The sound seems to have been enough to summon the man back into existence, however, so she can't be completely rueful.  He's walked into the big room with a fluffy cloth around his legs and midriff but nothing else, hair wet and blue eyes alert (only insofar as a moment's curiosity could inspire, of course, which has been the pattern these days).  Kit notices a few dark bruises on his torso, slowly fading, and wonders if her theory about some giant predator might have been correct.  
  
"Kit?" he asks.  
  
"Mew," she replies casually, repositioning her front paws on the door.  _Come on already_.  Her demands are simple.  
  
Other noises come from the man's face, none of which make sense or matter, because he's finally sighing and striding over to pull the door apart.  Kit gleefully snakes past his legs and into the warm air of night, pulling excited breaths into her nose to search for clues.  Five or six leads trip her olfactory nerves right away, but most are drifting to her from some unreachable place and must, for now, be unfortunately dismissed.  
  
Still, it's better than nothing.  Kit settles smugly onto the seat of the chair nearby, nostrils flaring with every whiff of atmosphere.  
  
Then she calms, relaxing into strategic patience.  
  
_Now, we wait_.  
  
It's a long wait though, and Kit growls a little when she realizes that she's dozed off.  The world looks the same - still dark and full of shiny lights down there - so she knows she hasn't been sleeping forever, but - wait.  
  
She hears it before she smells it.  
  
A hurried skittering of tiny claws.  Wings?  Right up there, three feet beyond the light hanging high on the wall.  Just - _there_ , right there, that's definitely -  
  
Kit slowly rises up, cautiously shifting her center of gravity forward but keeping her shoulders low, turning herself into a waiting projectile.  All the while, she listens intently, determined.  Strategies blossom and dissipate and reformulate over and over.  It's not that Kit doubts herself, but the situation does feel a bit high stakes, and she so _badly_ hopes to succeed, hopes to make the man inside their home happy again.  
  
A fluttering of something dark flaps against the place where the wall meets the corner of the ledge above it, and Kit makes painstakingly glacial movements to position herself closer.  She marvels at the silence built into the pads of her own feet, congratulates herself again on having such a brilliant idea in the first place, and -  
  
The bat drops from its moorings and spreads its wings to take flight, but Kit's ready, eyes wide with anticipation, reflexes taut with accuracy.  Half a second before the creature swoops low over her head, she launches herself - and connects.  
  
_I am the best_ , Kit purrs triumphantly.  She's already running back into the big room, turning a sharp corner and barreling down the long hallway.  Her tiny quarry squeaks and wriggles desperately, but remains firmly trapped between her jaws - she doesn't bite down because she doesn't have to yet, she needs the man to see -  
  
The door to the man's sleeping space is only partially closed, nothing some jubilant yowling and scratching can't remedy.  _Check it out, you won't believe what I've got for you!_   Kit's throat is rough from the exhilarated vocalizations bubbling up from her chest, but it doesn't matter, it'll all be worth it; she's found a solution and it'll surely work.  It has to.  
  
When the man opens the door all the way for her, his once-groggy eyes go wide again and he seems...upset.  
  
In case he doesn't understand, Kit deposits the live bat at his feet and steps back proudly, beaming up at him, eyes alight with mischief and pride.  "Maaaauuuu!" she explains.  
  
It's not at all the scene she anticipated.  The man yells and disappears, returning with the same fluffy cloth he wore earlier.  The bat seems equally panicked, struggling to its senses and feebly taking flight.  It dips and swerves in unpredictable zigzags around the room, at last coming to rest against a shiny metal fixture high upon the back wall, out of reach.  
  
The man makes a decidedly unimpressed noise before grabbing at something by his bag - the long stick with a curved end.  Kit's seem him play with it several times, has often wondered why he smacks small objects back and forth with it so much, and finds herself curious now in spite of her disappointment.  
  
The man lifts the stick high and approaches the bat slowly, gingerly setting one foot in front of the other as if he anticipates a surprise attack.  There's no way this could be the beast stalking him though, not a chance; it's too small and helpless.  Kit would think the whole thing very funny if not for the way the man glares over his shoulder at her, scolding her.  _I only meant to help_ , she insists.  
  
Finally, the man extends the stick carefully and applies the gentlest of prods to the bat - which squeaks and takes flight again, only to collide with a large piece of furniture and flop back onto the man's bedding.  
  
He drops his stick and dives low to collect the towel, tossing it over the tiny creature and subsequently wrapping it inside.  He runs from the room and Kit follows, still confused.  She watches numbly as the man steps through the glass door and unfolds the cloth to allow the bat's escape.  
  
Crestfallen, Kit searches for a place to nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: my very own fur child pulled this exact stunt on me, with similar results, and that event is actually what spawned the idea for this entire fic. Well - that and the fact that I relate to Kent. A lot. So it was meant to be.
> 
> But...! But Kit was so sad that her offering was not accepted! Yeah, it's a sad thing. Which is why I made sure my cat didn't see that I let his bat escape IRL. He spent the entire week acting very pleased with himself, and life was good.
> 
> Up next: Kent tries to share his own offering with an old friend.


	4. "So I Exist in This Wasteland, a Man Reduced to a Single Instinct"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent clears his throat again, puts on a lazy smile. "Hey, uh - this is where Jack lives, right? I'd like to talk to him, if he's around."

They're definitely old enough to know better.  What happened is done.  Water under the bridge.  Right?  Maybe.  
  
Kent hesitates for a moment.  The frat house in front of him looks like anything he's seen from a movie.  It's a little messy, sure, but full of character and history in ways he doesn't get to experience firsthand.  He can only guess at the initials scratched into the wood on the porch railings, at the paint in various stages of care and decay - old and peeling in some areas, but fresh and clean in others.  He knows intuitively this is a much-loved space, and he can't explain why, exactly, but it makes his chest ache.  
  
This is part of the choice he made, and he doesn't regret it.  He was meant for the NHL.  It was everything he'd ever wanted and everything he'd worked for - bled for, pushed himself for - and he'd never trade it for normal.  
  
Still.  Looking at the old but charming edifice before him, windows gleaming softly in the early evening light, Kent wonders how it's possible that he ended up feeling so goddamn lonely.  
  
He clears his throat and gently pushes the car door closed.  In retrospect, he wonders why he chose a flashy red Corvette at the airport.  It was easily the nicest car they had on the rental lot, and maybe it seemed like a good idea at the time, but... _now_.  It's comically out of place here, so conspicuous and loud, an ostentatious eyesore against the worn but friendly homes on this near-campus corridor.  Kent laughs under his breath, a derisive snort, deciding that no, actually - it's fucking perfect.  
  
Then, ignoring the raw agitation in his stomach, he puts one foot in front of the other and approaches this building whose address matches his destination.  
  
Kent tries the doorbell first.  He hears nothing inside but waits politely on the porch anyway, just in case.  He leans with his back against the wall, head down, ball cap facing forward with the bill pulled low to partially cover his face.  
  
This is such a long shot.  It's stupid, is what it is.  No - it's worse.  It's grade A fuckery and Kent's pretty sure he's going to quietly asphyxiate and die on a doorstep that doesn't belong to him, surrounded by an absence of - of what?  In a neighborhood that doesn't know him.  Even though everyone _thinks_ they know him now, which is still so surreal that he often wonders if he might suddenly wake up somewhere else.  
  
Kent tries the doorbell a second time, but nothing stirs.  Maybe he'll have to knock.  
  
So he does.  Well, he tries to.  He lifts a fist high in the air and aims to bring it down against the door, but the building seems to have finally realized he's here.  The door swings open from the inside - in time to avoid the hit, no less - revealing a mustached man with long brown hair, heavily distressed jeans, and mismatched flip-flops.  
  
Kent clears his throat again, puts on a lazy smile.  "Hey, uh - this is where Jack lives, right?  I'd like to talk to him, if he's around."  
  
"Sure thing, bro," the man says, making a welcoming gesture and stepping aside.  "Jack's out for a run, but he'll be back."  
  
"An evening run, huh?  Thought he liked getting up at ass o'clock in the morning for that shit," Kent hears himself musing aloud as he follows this stranger into the pungent, warm smells of what appears to be a communal kitchen.  
  
"Oh, he does.  Dude loves to punish himself.  Grab a seat if you want.  Beer?" the man offers casually, cracking open the fridge to free another kaleidoscope of odd odors into the air between them.  The whole place looks and smells so completely foreign to Kent, to anywhere he's set foot recently - maybe in years.  It's messy, with crumbs and empty plastic bags and the detritus of old food strewn haphazardly about the countertops, but it feels like a home.  
  
"You know, yeah.  I'll have a beer, thanks.  I, uh.  I didn't catch your name."   
  
"Call me Shitty, everyone does," the man answers with a wide grin.  
  
"Seriously?"  
  
"Hockey nickname."  
  
Kent pulls a chair away from the table and sits, removing the hat from his head and running a hand nervously through his hair.  A few stubborn strands at his temples bounce and curl away defiantly as always, so he smothers them with the hat again, this time flipping the bill to the back automatically.  He accepts the cold bottle from Shitty's hand and smiles appreciatively, hoping to convince himself that he's not so alien here.  
  
"Thanks, man," he says again, wondering what his next move ought to be.  
  
"No worries, bruh, we got plenty more where that came from.  Jack doesn't really drink it, you can have his share."   
  
Kent winces at that, but Shitty doesn't notice - or appears not to notice, which is nice of him.  He instead sits down in the chair adjacent to Kent's, pops the cap from his own bottle, and taps their beverages together in a casual gesture of celebration.  "To a good summer, eh?" he says amicably, taking a swig.  
  
"To a good summer," Kent agrees, swallowing as much of the amber ale as he can.  
  
Shitty almost certainly recognizes him, Kent's sure of it, but he's doing a good job of keeping the interaction from superficial, trite, or insane.  It's the way a person ought to talk.  No cameras, no microphones, no rushed tumble of admiring compliments or recycled post-game sound bites.  The atmosphere is comfortable and there's something about this guy he likes.   
  
Kent's almost happy, though he still has small knots in his belly and his face feels too hot.  
  
"Has it been a while since you've seen Jack, then?" Shitty asks abruptly, reclining and kicking his mismatched, flip-flopped feet up onto the tabletop.  It's an innocent question, something to make the silences between them easier, smaller.  
  
"Yeah, it's been a long time," Kent confirms, trying not to picture emergency rooms or bathroom floors or miles and miles of newspaper clippings.  His heart might beat its way out of his ribcage, but he'll be damned if anyone sees.  These are symptoms of a virus only he can know, because talking about it is painful and strange, too much for a heady buzz on a warm evening.  "I guess I just wanted to say hi since I was in the neighborhood."  
  
Shitty nods, eyeing him skeptically though not challenging it.  "He should be glad to see you, dude could use more human interaction in his life."  
  
"You guys are teammates, right?  And housemates, obviously, but -"  
  
"Yeah!  Pretty good bros too, I'd like to think.  Jack's a machine and I can't keep up.  He's very focused and I can't blame the guy - his dad, you know - but it's the most fun I've ever had on a team.  I'm lookin' at grad school, anyway, so this is only my life for the here and now."  
  
Shitty grows more animated the longer he talks, but when he finally pauses for another deep drink, Kent can't help but wonder why the guy's so comfortable and forthcoming and easy.   
  
_Does he know?_   He can't know.  Jack wouldn't do that to himself.  
  
Or would he?  No.  Probably not.  Kent's mind splinters, gaining speed, runs itself into the boards and recovers quickly enough to ask, with measured calmness, "Jack's doing okay, though?"  
  
Shitty's brow wrinkles.  "You haven't been in touch with him?"  
  
Kent shrugs, drinks the rest of his beer and places the empty bottle gingerly down upon the grungy tabletop.  "Not regularly, not really.  No."  
  
Without asking, Shitty stands and fishes another beer from the fridge, placing it matter-of-factly against Kent's waiting palm.  "Why not?" is the question hanging in the air instead, and Kent wants to answer it honestly, wants to trust the pleasant, nonjudgmental nature of the man next to him.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
It's the truth, and Shitty doesn't press it.  Instead he says simply, "All the more reason to drop by and say hi, then."  
  
"Yeah.  I actually wasn't sure anyone would be around.  Seems a little early for school, but worth a shot, right?"  
  
"Damn right.  Some of us live here all summer, some of us come back early to start training, some of us are supposed to be here on time and then don't show up for a few weeks - but those poor bastards always get evicted and replaced by cooler teammates.  We've got a system and a reputation to maintain here, but it pretty much takes all kinds."  Shitty grins and wiggles his mismatched feet.  
  
"Wait - does the whole team live here?"  Kent's pretty sure the place isn't big enough, but he's seen weirder shit accomplished in the billet homes of yesteryear.  
  
"Ha, usually we give dibs to the more serious players.  Or fun players.  Or seriously fun players.  Our Epikegsters are legendary, by the way, and I am the Patron Saint of Tub Juice.  If you hear anyone say otherwise, tell 'em to come fight me."  
  
"Epic kegsters?" Kent laughs.  
  
"Yeah, if you're around for a game or something, you should drop in.  Hit up Jack, say hello more often."  
  
As if on cue, the door behind them opens.  Jack appears, a resurrected revenant in the flesh.  He's wet from his run, a red Samwell shirt soaked through with sweat and stuck to his skin.  His hair's cut shorter than Kent remembers, and his muscles are impressively thicker.   
  
Everything else is painfully familiar.  
  
Shitty abruptly pushes away from the kitchen table and stands, chair scraping against the fractured floorboards.  "Kent Parson here to see you," he says coolly, in a way meant to be funny though it makes Kent shiver.  "I'll let you guys catch up, yeah?"  He leaves before receiving a response - _leaves Kent Parson and Jack Zimmermann alone_.  Which hasn't happened in years.  Which doesn't -  
  
Kent tries his trademark grin and says, "Heya, Zimms."  
  
"Parse."  Jack's voice isn't cold, just surprised and maybe a little anxious - though Kent hopes mostly just surprised.  Jack's ridiculously square jaw looks too rigid, like maybe he wants to grind his teeth; Kent briefly muses that this whole thing was surely a terrible idea, but now it's an irreversible one too.  
  
"Seemed wrong to be in this part of the country without saying hi to an old friend," he says smoothly.  "How ya been?"  
  
"Fine, thanks.  I don't suppose I need to ask how you've been."  
  
Kent leans away and arches an eyebrow, waiting for the rest of Jack's thought.  An old habit.  
  
"Congratulations on the Cup, Kenny."   
  
But Jack is smiling now - a tiny half-smile, like he's really trying.  Even better, like he actually feels a little happy for Kent.  
  
"Thanks, Jack, that means...a lot."  There's still a weighty uncertainty, but Kent feels emboldened, presses on.  "It feels _incredible_ , in your hands.  It's supposed to be heavy, but it's not heavy at all.  It feels like lifting air.  God, it's the best air you'll ever breathe, Zimms."  
  
Jack nods, apparently studying a spot on the floor with great consternation.  His half-smile wanes a little and he shifts from one foot to the other, carefully maintaining his distance.  Jack fucking Zimmermann stands not five feet away, skin raw and flushed with late summer exercise and closer than he's been in years, but reaching out and _touching_ him is an endeavor equally impossible here as it is in Las fucking Vegas.  
  
Kent's ribs feel hollow; there's a hole somewhere in his chest.  
  
"I actually wanted to show you something," he says, taking another quick pull from his bottle and getting determinedly to his feet.  He fishes out his cell phone, opens the photo application, and aims the device at Jack so that he can see more clearly.  
  
" _Crisse_ ," is all the larger man says, exhaling slowly.  
  
"Right?!  We don't actually have them yet, but I've never seen anything like it in my life.  Like - not for real, you know?  I'll probably have to keep it in a safety deposit box somewhere, but it's so fucking unbelievable.  I can't believe we did it."  He needs Jack to know, needs Jack to _see_.  
  
"Unbelievable is right," Jack says, those chilling blue eyes turning heavy and sad.   
  
Kent lowers the screen quickly.  The image of an enormous, diamond-encrusted ring bearing the year and Aces logo lingers for half a second before it's banished to blackness, device locked.  
  
"I just wanted to show it to you, I guess," he explains weakly, words and reasoning suddenly a small struggle.  He's breathing in Jack's _sweat_ now, what the fuck, and he wants to hug the other man, to ask how he's doing and if he's really better, to lean into him and tell him everything, tell him what this has felt like from every angle, every moment - to stop feeling everything so acutely _by himself_.  
  
Jack sighs.  "Look, Kenny...I know you won.  Everyone knows you won.  You did great.  So you didn't have to come here to tell me that."  
  
"Winning was great, but...fuck, Jack.  It fucking sucks that you weren't there.  It would've been better if you were there."  
  
"It's okay, you know.  We'd have been on different teams, anyway."  
  
"You'd be in the NHL.  With me.  Like you shoulda been."  
  
" _Kenny_ \- "  
  
A set of footsteps catches both of them off guard, and they freeze.  Shitty reappears, saunters over to the table, and casually picks up the bottle he'd left behind.  "Forgot my beer," he explains, only half-apologetic.  "Sorry.  By all means, carry on."   
  
Then he exits again and Kent finds himself staring at Jack, who looks angry.  _No, no, no._  
  
"What the fuck happened, man?"  It's gone sideways and everything's spilling now, he can't stop the hemorrhaging even if he wanted to.  "Why'd you drop off the face of the earth?  Why didn't you answer?  Was it because...?"  Kent needs to know, doesn't care that his face is hot with emotion.  
  
But Jack still doesn't answer, only looks down at Kent with those enormously heavy eyes, somewhat slack-jawed.  He doesn't answer and doesn't answer and doesn't answer and the silence rolls onward for maybe thirty seconds before the anger ebbs out of Jack's face and Kent isn't thinking anymore -  
  
He sinks forward into the other man's chest, sweat-soaked and gross and warm.  Jack sighs a note of surprise - and then, unbelievably, wraps his arms around Kent's shoulders, pinning the shorter man against him.  Kent can feel the sharp outline of Jack's chin as it presses into the top of his head, sending his ball cap askew just a little bit.   
  
He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, tries not to lose his composure.  
  
They stand in the empty kitchen like that for a long while, until finally Jack coughs roughly and recollects himself, his shoulders abruptly unyielding when he straightens up.  
  
"Parse, I'm...other guys live here, and.  You know."  
  
"Yeah, of course."  Kent pulls away, feeling not unlike a drowning man refusing oxygen.  "I just wanted to see you."  
  
"It was good to see you."  
  
"I miss you."  
  
"I know, Kenny."  
  
"I had to get the Cup, Zimms.  If you couldn't do it, I had to."  
  
It's one sentence too far, apparently, and infinitely more complicated than Kent knows it sounded at face value.  
  
Jack steps back, his disposition suddenly chilly.  "Parse," he says, eyes downcast and hard, "it's nice you came by and everything, but I've been fine here.  Really.  I didn't ask you to show up out of nowhere, especially if you're here to gloat."   
  
"I'm not!  Seriously, man, I thought it would be important, or that you could be happy for me or for us or...something.  _Fuck_ , I don't know."  
  
"Look, I'm happy for you.  I am.  Good for you on the Cup.  It takes a team, you know.  Good luck next season."  
  
Kent hears footsteps approaching again.  He thinks he might die, so he quietly ducks his head and helps himself to the door before Shitty can disguise his eavesdropping as anything else.  
  
  
  
Kent gets on a plane.  It's nice to be a passenger, to rest his responsibilities on something else if only for the remainder of the night.  He leans against the dark window, waiting and watching and thinking.  
  
There's an extensive stretch of lightless void below, a soft velvety blackness that might as well be the aching emptiness in Kent's chest.  In actuality, it's the vast swath of land he knows to be a scarred network of bizarre, famous canyons and unforgiving desert - like some kind of _Mad Max_ reference he gets to be a regular part of.   
  
The more he thinks about it, the more Kent imagines a serious kinship with the topography below.  He feels gutted, wrecked and empty and full of poison.  Maybe the natural desolation was always meant to be his home.  Something inside him warms at the idea.  
  
A jarring line of city lights, even and clean, suddenly cuts into the darkness without preface - an oasis that shouldn't exist.  The thick grids of glittering tungsten rapidly give way to surreal shocks of neon color, bursting from the city's spine at regular intervals.   
  
He likes Vegas, thinks it likes him back.  Thinks he could handle living here long term, maybe even dying here later - or sooner, or whenever, appropriately killed by his own vices in a city built upon the principle.  It's not just any oasis either, it's _his_ oasis, the wasteland apocalypse where he wins Cups and drinks in his loft, high above all the lights, and lets go of his own life.  It'll be easy.  He'll start tonight, after his driver privately collects him at McCarran.  
  
The heavy thud of landing gear drops from somewhere in the airplane's gut; Kent sips from a plastic cup of whisky and thinks a silent prayer to no one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Often, I have noticed remixed versions of the canon ugliness that occurred at Epikegster. Not often enough have I encountered considerations of Shitty's warning to Bitty on the steps. How does Shitty know what he knows?
> 
> (I'll be honest, some of this fandom seems, to me at least, to have a penchant for taking everything at face value and calling it a day - in spite of all the clues and foreshadowing. Hmmm...)
> 
> SO! Kent's first Haus visit. If your friend won't catch and eat bats WIN STANLEY CUPS for himself, you do it for him.
> 
> Up next: Kit bonds with an Aces teammate.


	5. "Trade Me Right F***ing Now"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's more muttering, a sigh. A congenial clap on the shoulder from the visitor, a reluctant nod from Kit's moody manservant.

It's been two weeks, and frankly, Kit's over this nonsense.  The man won't eat, he doesn't seem to be sleeping any better, and if he won't take the bats - well, that's not her problem.  She's tried her very best, and it's been exhausting.  
  
She's been good, hasn't she?  She's been his friend through all of his less than perfect moments before, so why is she being ignored now?  
  
Late one evening, after Kit's already spent a few hours napping and dreaming and feeling sorry for herself, she saunters into the living area to see the man talking quietly with another man.  This happens sometimes; the man will bring home some other silly-looking two-legged companion, they'll make serious chatter at each other, and then they'll drink from those smooth brown bottles and put loud pictures on the big screen, high up on the wall.  
  
Sometimes, Kit finds herself annoyed with these interlopers.  More often than not, she thinks they're talking to her when apparently they're addressing the man instead.  _Well, excuse her_.  If she knows one thing, she knows what her own name sounds like.  It's not her fault that the man seems to use it too.  Or is that how it works - everyone in the same home goes by the same name?  She supposes it's ultimately not her concern.  
  
With all the confidence she can muster, Kit struts into the middle of the room.  She makes a point of not looking at her sullen housemate, though she deliberately bumps into his leg in a display of dominance.   
  
"Mau?" she suggests to the other man instead, cautiously approaching his place of repose against the sofa cushions.  He grins, gently sets a brown bottle aside (she _knew_ it), and extends a hand for Kit's assessment.  
  
Her initial sniffs detect nothing of concern, only that this man also smells distantly pungent - the same adrenaline pheromone, perhaps, albeit in much smaller volume.  Whatever these men do when they disappear, wherever they go - it _must_ be dangerous.  Still, Kit can't bring herself to excuse the uncharacteristic aloofness from the man who feeds her.  
  
The stranger leans down to pet her then, a solid scratch behind the ears that trails down her back and follows her tail.  She allows her eyes to narrow blissfully and drops to the floor in spite of herself.  She even rotates onto her back a little, and the scratch becomes a belly rub.  
  
The affection is very nice.  Kit hates that she's almost forgotten _how_ nice.  Now that she's got someone's attention, well...so what if she wants to rub it in, a little?  
  
She pulls herself up and climbs into the stranger's lap, pouring on the appreciation full stop, kneading a nest into the broad, muscled thighs under her feet.  One of her claws accidentally grabs at the smooth fabric there.  She winces, tries to pull away apologetically, and finds herself interrupted by a pair of hands on her paw - hands that belong to the man who feeds her, she notices triumphantly.  
  
His eyes seem heavy with concern or weariness as he works to free Kit from this entanglement.  When he finally separates claw from cloth, he mutters a handful of sad-sounding noises - not at her, but at the strange companion she's seated herself upon.  
  
He keeps talking, over and around her, and Kit's had enough.  Huffily, she turns to this changed person who lives in her space, stomps right onto his stomach, helps herself halfway up his chest, and firmly presses a paw against his mouth.  _Shut up_ , she thinks impatiently.  "Mawhhhr!" she says, as threateningly as possible.  
  
The stranger next to them erupts in the loudest fit of laughter Kit supposes she's heard in a long time.  
  
She quite likes it.  
  
So she says it again: "Mawhhhr!"  When the man tries to speak, she angles more of her weight into the gesture, pressing harder, and his sounds come out all stupidly muffled, buried under the pad of her foot.  
  
Their visitor is laughing so hard that he's struggling for breath, eyes transformed into thin, happy lines.  
  
The man who feeds her seems less impressed.  Regarding her with cool grey eyes, he stoically reaches to pry her from his side.  Beneath her paw, Kit feels the man's face flushing hot.  She hopes to have made him at least a tiny bit angry.  (That way she won't have to climb onto the countertops later, smashing objects to the floor just to get her point across.)  
  
For now, she returns to the visitor's comfy legs and performs her best impression of a bread loaf, purring loudly.  The man lets her go.  
  
Occasionally, Kit picks up words that sound familiar - her name, or the man's name, and a third name that she hears once in a while but has no context for.  She thinks she's picked up on the name of their visitor too; it sounds like "oops" and she wonders if translates to "great thighs, well done" because it should.   
  
Listening to the droning of their voices, she drifts in and out of sleep, the most content she's been in days.  
  
  
  
It's late when the visitor finally gets up to leave.  Kit chirps indignantly at her removal from his lap, which he answers with a comforting scratch under the chin and a pat on the head.  Then he turns and pulls her housemate into a loose hug.  There's more muttering, a sigh.  A congenial clap on the shoulder from the visitor, a reluctant nod from Kit's moody manservant.  
  
"Mau!" Kit shouts, by way of goodbye.  
  
Then the visitor is gone.  That's that.  Kit trots down the hall, tail aloft.  
  
She can't help feeling smug; the stranger's affection seems like a victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Puck drops at 7:15! First 2,000 Falconers fans will receive a free Mashkov bobblehead collectible at the door, so arrive early!


	6. "I'm Not Going to No Vegas"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For just a moment, a path to the slot opens up entirely. Nobody's fast enough to make this work, not really, but the fever in his blood begs to differ. He's all in.

Morning skate in Providence is bizarre.  They've played the Falconers before, of course, but this season is the first with Jack fucking Zimmermann on the roster.  The much-discussed, son-of-a-legend, late-blooming rookie who also happens to be Kent's secret fuck buddy from juniors - and, he'd thought, his best friend at one time.  No big deal.  
  
Nothing bad could possibly come of this.  
  
Kent totally won't vomit in the locker room during their allotted practice hours.  Which is to say that he vomits on the bench instead, and hurriedly comes up with some story about his room service huevos rancheros being slightly undercooked, and yes, no, he's fine now.  He's fine.  
  
Swoops gives him the side-eye, like he knows better, but Kent's determined to deflect anything and everything, even if only by grinning and focusing on his game.  He already screwed up once this week by showing actual human emotion in an interview about _this matchup specifically_ , though he guesses most people don't know the half of it.  There are rumors, sure, but he'd also guess there are large groups of the fan base who are more than happy to dismiss everything they've heard (if they've heard it at all) as needless speculation, reading between the lines at nothing.  
  
Point being, he's learned that people tend to think whatever they want to, and sometimes that works in Kent's favor.  He's got some leeway to fuck up every so often without the entire world hating him, as long as he puts up good numbers.  And probably as long as Kent Parson, bisexual, is only background noise hearsay.  
  
If he's still a little self-conscious about that interview - which he's obviously not - it's mostly because, as rock star MVP franchise player precious cargo, he's also not really allowed to _feel_ anything.  
  
And sometimes he fucking hates that.  
  
Among things he doesn't hate: controlling the puck flawlessly in each of his stickhandling drills, then deking past two of his own defensemen during a three-on-two, going top shelf, and relentlessly chirping them that, if they lose tonight, it's totally their fault and he'll personally recommend them sent down to the AHL for a few weeks.  
  
"You're an asshole, Parser!" shouts Rigsy, lazily skating back to reset their positions and go again.  
  
He laughs when Kent winks at him though, and for the most part everything feels good.  The entire practice feels good.  Kent's muscles are nice and warm, his game's solid in spite of (or because of?) the nerves he mostly refuses to acknowledge, and whatever happens tonight...well, he's ready for it.  It's just another two points to win; he didn't lie about that.  
  
After exiting the ice, he crosses paths with the assistant team physician in the tunnel.  Which reminds him that he did, in fact, lie about bad huevos rancheros.  
  
"How you feeling, Parson?" Mike asks matter-of-factly, crossing his arms, a towel over his shoulder like he might choke somebody with it.  
  
"I'm good, honestly," Kent insists.  "I think my breakfast just didn't sit right with me.  I was pretty sure I'd be good to go, and after I, uh...you know, by the bench there, it helped right away."  
  
"Couldn't get it out in the locker room?"  
  
"It hit me really fast, man."  
  
"You'll let us know, of course, if anything changes."  It's not a question.  Then, "You look alright to me, just gotta do my job."  
  
"Thanks, Mike."  
  
Kent wonders if they suspect him of being hungover, which hadn't occurred to him until now.  He supposes he'd rather let his team follow that thread than let a single one of them know the truth.  
  
  
  
The solitude of his hotel suite is too much, so Kent leaves the television on for white noise while he eats a small meal of chicken pasta primavera and settles in for a pre-game nap.  The 1999 iteration of _The Mummy_ keeps him company, with Brendan Fraser dashing through the desert to save the day.  
  
He tries to drift off, but his mind has other plans.  For no reason at all, it relentlessly replays his last encounter with Jack Zimmermann in an infinite loop from hell.    
  
He'll be fine if he just falls asleep soon.  He doesn't have to check in at the arena until five.  Be cool, damnit.  
  
". _..What about Las Vegas?_ "  
  
What about it?  Jack had no interest then, and they haven't spoken since.  Kent was impatient, said things he wished he hadn't.  Even though he meant some of them, and _especially_ because he's still hurting and he can't make it stop.  
  
The two of them together again would have meant surefire Cup contention, a regular playoff threat for years - for as long as the Aces could afford to keep signing them under the salary cap, really.  On paper, it's a no-brainer.  They were good then, but they'd be even better now.  As much as Jack's arguably slowed himself down, even.  Fuck, playing against guys on a professional level - he'd only get better.  Better than he's ever been.  
  
Well.  He's probably getting there, just with a different team obviously.  Kent winces.  A sneaky thought surfaces, the brief suggestion that he offer his invitation _again_ should the Falcs actually win tonight.  It's not like contracts last forever.  
  
As soon as he thinks it, Kent runs the idea through a mental paper shredder.  Nope.  Nope, nope, nope.  Hard nope.  That shit's blasphemy now.  
  
At the heart of it, he feels eviscerated.  Abandoned, forgotten, and kind of used, if he's being honest.  He remembers, too sharply, the constant support and comfort he'd offered, the times he set aside his own fears to soothe Jack's anxiety, to lift him up with encouragement because that's what best friends fucking _do_.  Jack wasn't the only one sweating bullets over the reality of their futures, but for all of Kent's patience?  It got him nowhere, emotionally speaking.  He's a king on the ice, a shark in an ocean, covered in money, accolades, and women which - okay, that's nice.  
  
But he can't feel, he can't think, and he can't talk to anyone about it.  
  
He's ninety percent sure he drinks too much, but he doesn't know what too much _even is_ because no one bothers to check in with him.  Sure, he's been slapped on the wrist a couple of times for displays of public intoxication, but he's otherwise kept himself together.  Unless he's caught with his pants down somewhere?  Yeah, the general office doesn't care.  
  
_It's okay to be angry_ , Kent thinks.  
  
At last, he feels himself going a bit fuzzy.  
  
He dreams about the desert, about wandering for miles across a deep, gouged-out canyon where nothing grows.  He's really thirsty, but he can't do anything about it.  A tree off along the distant horizon might provide shade, but it can't.  It's not a tree.    
  
When Kent wakes to his alarm (a custom recording of Kit yowling for treats), he feels a little better.  He cleans up quickly, shrugs on his suit jacket, fastens his cufflinks.  
  
He leaves the TV on.  It's _Swingers_ now, Vince Vaughn heatedly championing an impromptu road trip with Jon Favreau over an ancient cordless phone.  
  
  
  
When he returns to the locker room, Kent discovers a black home jersey hanging in the stall temporarily marked PARSON #90.  He does a double-take, leans back, and scans the others.  They're all black home jerseys, though he doesn't recall a reason for non-regulation uniforms.  It's not a special occasion, is it?  Did he miss something?  He's not supposed to do anything out of the ordinary for PR, right?  _Has he been in a coma for three days?_  
  
Nope, turns out Todd the equipment manager fucked up.  They're told it was an honest mistake, some boxes got mixed up back in Vegas.  Everyone must have had a good laugh and carried on with it; the Falcs have apparently agreed to wear their away colors to simplify the matter.  
  
Kent's pretty sure he's never seen this happen before.  
  
It feels like an omen.  Smiling wryly, he laces up his skates and prepares to be the bad guy.  If he has to.  
  
He starts small, just testing the atmosphere for turbulence.  First chance he gets, he gently elbows his former best friend in the side - incidental contact, no big deal.  It's a dick move, kind of, especially when he sees the apprehension in Jack's face.  _If this is all I can have_ , Kent thinks darkly, _I'll take it._  
  
The other part of him, frankly, just needs to know this is real, or to remind Jack that _he's_ real and that he's not going away.  If Kent is assertive, then Jack is compliant; this much evidently remains the same.  
  
It's a physical game, a long, grinding effort that yields a tie after two periods of blood and sweat and incoherent accusations.  Swoops put himself in the box for retaliating a little too blatantly in front of the head referee, and while he can argue all night about the little whacks and slashes he's been taking from Robinson, it doesn't matter now - they needed to kill the penalty, they didn't, and that's why they're 1-1.    
  
Kent hasn't scored, but neither has Jack.  
  
The final frame only aggravates the tension, from the moment Mashkov collides with Rigsy and goes careening into the boards of his own accord.  The fans, it seems, want Riggs in the box on a tripping call.  They don't get it - which is just as fucking well, because there wasn't one in Kent's estimation.  Some heavyset dude near the glass stands up and yells "HORSESHIT!" to the affirmation of a resounding chorus of boos, pouring in from every corner of the stadium.  
  
Kent grins and shakes his head, reminded of their win in Nashville last week under a torrent of similar opinions.  
  
Then his line cycles back onto the ice and he's out there again with Jack, who has indeed been playing better than Kent remembers.  Sure, he's watched tape, plenty of it, but seeing this in person is different.  Jack's been great in the dot, for one thing - the Aces can't seem to win anything against him.  _Fuck_.  Kent would be proud, if things were different.  
  
The game grinds on.  Tonnevold takes a stick to the face and the Aces get a four minute man advantage on the double-minor, thanks to the volume of blood splattered down Tonner's sweater.  
  
They capitalize.  Kent feels a fever creeping into his veins.  
  
Finally two minutes remain, and a win looks probable.  
  
Kent shifts on again after a whistle.  Zimms is there as usual, preparing to take a faceoff in the Providence zone.  He wins the draw easily and sends a slick pass to the winger behind him, Fitzgerald, before dropping back into neutral ice.  
  
Fitzgerald immediately fires an obscene stretch pass back to Jack, and miraculously nobody gets a stick in the way to stop it.    
  
The Falcs have a breakaway opportunity.  
  
_Fuck me_ , Kent hisses, internally or out loud, who knows - he's pouring on all the speed he's got, but he's no substitute for a proper d-man and he can only hope to get in Jack's way in time, to block the shot or get his own stick on it - but of course, Jack fakes him out, scores with a shot to the top stick-side corner - and _of course_ , it all happens more or less exactly as Kent ran his own moves in practice this morning, which is just salt in the wound.  
  
The crowd explodes.   
  
Timeout, Las Vegas.  
  
Game on.  
  
Kent's got an itch to scratch.  
  
The second Swoops gains control of the puck after the faceoff, they surge into the Falconers' zone.  Wait for the opportune moment, _wait for it_.  Too eager, Wheeler misfires and Swoops has to grind it out in the corner.  He means to send it up the wing, to Kent - but it's a hair too hot, and Kent has to turn on the jets to receive the puck, hurrying up to slow everything down.  
  
For just a moment, a path to the slot opens up entirely.  Nobody's fast enough to make this work, not really, but the fever in his blood begs to differ.  He's all in.  
  
So he goes.  Full speed, flying at the net, with every intention of putting the brakes on when he fires his shot, of course -  
  
Which he does.  He elects to go five-hole at approximately the same time a pile of Falconers collide into him, forcing him to literally crash into the net, thanks in part to his drive as well as their added momentum, and everything fucking hurts and he can't breathe and he hears a super pissed off crowd so hopefully that means he's done something right, besides killing their goaltender which is not what he meant to do, but hey, casualties of war -  
  
"I'll knock your last tooth out, you piece a shit!"  
  
"Coulda injured - "  
  
"Fucking Aces hockey - "  
  
"Try touching me again, fucking cockstain!"  
  
He really can't breathe, seriously.  Someone's holding him down.  He's trying to lift his head, but his neck can't turn - it's forcing his face down to the ice and fuck, his ribs, fuck.  Moving only his eyes, he looks up in time to see the head ref signaling a goal, but then he hears something else he can't quite ascertain, boos to cheers and distantly he figures, well, they're reviewing it.  Of course the Falconers are challenging it - why wouldn't they?  
  
Some of the bodies finally separate, and he steals a quick breath that hurts more than the dogpile on top of him did - has he broken some of his ribs? - but an arm pulls him up and there's a thick accent in his ear, yelling, "You liking hit like that so much?!  I CAN HIT TOO!"  
  
And Kent doesn't care.  He feels like he's been mowed down by a bus, and now there's nothing to do but wait until the guys in Toronto call it fair.  Or not.  Whatever.  
  
Then he notices a pair of ice blue eyes, watching him from a distance, heavy with something that looks like pain or concern or generalized sadness.  Somehow, he's almost forgotten the guy he's playing against.  The team.  The team and the guy.  
  
If he coughs, will blood come out?  
  
It doesn't matter.  Zimms is showing emotion, even if just a ghost of it, in a way that Kent never thought he would -  and that's a victory by itself, because he's a selfish monster whose probable internal injuries somehow seem worth it.  
  
But now there are howls from the crowd, which harden Jack's expression to stone, which tell Kent through some funneled eternity that his goal counted.  
  
He smirks at Jack, defiant.  He can't help himself.  Fuck everyone.  
  
The Aces win, 3-2.  
  
  
  
By the time they land in Las Vegas, Kent's entire body is screaming.  
  
He studies himself in his bathroom mirror, traces the thin lines of dark purple, spidery bruises encircling his torso like vines.  It feels real now.  Final.  Jack is never coming here, and at last Kent has physical pain to show for his years in the void.  
  
He downs a shot of whisky and blinks the tears out of his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though it has been established that those jersey colors were non-regulation, I'm not sure I've ever seen this probed at further. Poor Kent, literally wearing the colors of some smooth, sexy outlaw riding into town. In his black home jersey. For no reason. Other than Bitty hates him...and narrative themes.
> 
> Anyway, I'm gonna go hike up a mountain for the day. The next chapter is...Kent, again, but don't fear - Kit gets the final perspective in the last installment.
> 
> Up next: The encouraging power of awkward man-to-man, heart-to-heart, attempted discussions about things...and stuff.


	7. "All Cowardice Comes from Not Loving, or Not Loving Well"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't know how to feel right now. He's never told anyone before.

Kent takes what remains of his beer and steps onto the balcony.  The lights below are so numerous, so bright, and he shivers a little in the cool breeze sweeping in from the desert.  
  
He doesn't know how to feel right now.  He's never told anyone before.  
  
Technically, he still hasn't told anyone.  Swoops just point-blank assumed it, and Kent neither confirmed nor denied.   He's pretty sure his body language did it for him, though.  
  
" _I'm sorry if this is none of my business, man, but I'm gonna ask.  Zimmermann._ "  
  
" _What about him?_ "  
  
Kent takes a deep swig from his bottle and leans against the railing, watching the cars below.  Limousine, limousine, moving van, mid-range convertible, sedan.  Bright red Hummer, yellow Lamborghini.   
  
It's decidedly chilly at this hour, which is especially fair given the season, but his face still feels hot.  His mind is racing.  
  
" _You've been fucked up ever since the Falcs game, dude._ "  
  
" _It wasn't serious, just hurt for a while. Mike and Kim looked at it.  Bruised my ribs pretty bad.  No fractures though, so I'm fine._ "  
  
" _You are not fine._ "  
  
Kent holds his left hand at eye level, palm flat, and wills himself to exhale slowly, to make his hand steady.  To relax, to trust that his friend and teammate won't fuck him over or run his mouth on this one.  
  
Nothing bad happened, really.  It's not like Kent even said anything.  So he could always pretend that he never meant it the way Swoops understood it.  
  
He knows better, but hey.  It's an option.  
  
" _Look, Parser.  It's just me, I swear.  The guys aren't talking.  They're a little worried that something's going on with you, but like - none of 'em think it is what I think it is, and if they do, they haven't said anything.  It's just me.  I'm not gonna tell anyone._ "  
  
Kent fishes his phone from his pocket, pulls up his conversation with Swoops, and types: "thx for everything, needed it."  He adds a few fried shrimp emojis for good measure, just because he likes them.   
  
His mood is...better.  _Maybe._   On the upswing, at least.  
  
He hooks a foot around the leg of one of the deck chairs, pulls it closer, and lowers himself (the tiniest bit tenderly, still) into the seat.  He breathes in the smells of the city and watches a few flashing LED billboards off in the distance, cycling from one obscene tourist pull to the next.  He likes one in particular that rotates, at intervals, to a hot neon palette of reds, blues, purples, and pinks, though he doesn't even know the product advertised.  Some casino nightclub VIP enticement, probably.  
  
It never occurred to Kent that someone would notice, or worry, or offer a cautious ear if he needed it.  He has no plans to tell anyone else, or to officially confirm his sexual history with Swoops, but this was nice - all of it.  He only went so far as to mention that the girls he's partied with weren't there just for show, that he'd even really liked one of them but it didn't last very long.   
  
He said nothing of the nights he'd spent crammed into sweaty hotel rooms with Jack Zimmermann.  This was carefully avoided, but Swoops probably figured as much anyway.  
  
" _What's a team without its captain, right?  We need you with us, man._ "  
  
" _I know, I'm sorry.  I'll heal up, I promise._ "  
  
" _Parser, if I'm wrong, then, like - tell me to fuck off, I guess.  The only reason I'm askin' is because I give a shit.  About the team.  About you.  Just - I've got your back, alright?_ "  
  
A bat stirs from its slumber, high against the wall, and Kent wonders if it's one of the four or five bats Kit tried feeding him within the past ten days.  Perhaps it'll take an interest in the enormous hawk moth Kent spies nearby, resting in the corner, all dusty and imposing like it belongs there.  He briefly considers how big a moth might need to be in order for a bat to lose interest, but then, these bats are pretty resilient, sticking around while there's a furry assassin living six feet away from them.  
  
Kit really seemed to like the company tonight.  Guiltily, Kent knows he hasn't been the friendliest, kind of resents himself for trying on a standoffishness that's never really suited him before.  He doesn't like to live inside his head; the inside of his head scares him.  
  
He likes seeing whatever there is to see, trying whatever there is to try.  The world isn't so bad.  
  
So it's been a hard couple of weeks.  So his chest still hurts a little.  He apparently has friends who care about him, not just in a let's-get-fucked-up-at-Rigsy's-house way, and that's kinda cool.  
  
" _Sorry - bet that still hurts, huh_?"  
  
" _Yeah_."  
  
" _Good, you asshole._ "  
  
Kent remembers the arm around his shoulder, Swoops giving him shit for wincing at the leftover bruises there, and then the warm smile that immediately followed.  
  
" _Seriously, though, Parser - you ever need anything, give me a shout, alright?_ "  
  
The slow, lazy grin that Kent returned.  
  
" _Maybe I will_."  
  
Maybe he will.  
  
Kent takes another pull from his porter, settles deep into the back of the deck chair, and wraps his arms around himself in a somewhat awkward-looking hug, more to feel the lingering pain in his ribs than to protect against the nighttime chill.  He's sure it would seem somewhat pathetic if he didn't feel so suddenly...calm.  
  
Maybe he still owes Jack an apology for the things he's said.  Maybe someday they'll meet up again, off the ice.  Maybe someday they'll talk.  
  
There's so much Kent wants to say - to yell, even - but he knows they owe each other.  That he can't yell, shouldn't yell, if Jack is willing to talk at all.  Maybe that will happen, and maybe it's up to Jack whether it does.  
  
The hawk moth waddles closer, crawling along the balcony railing.  It stops its progress directly in front of Kent and turns as if to address him, waggling its feelers excitedly.  
  
"'Sup, Seymour?" says Kent, because he's buzzed from the beer, warm and content, and it seems like the kind of name a moth should have.  
  
The moth flicks its wings, like it can't decide if it wants to take flight or just flex its muscles for kicks.  There's something oddly threatening about the unpredictability of that gesture, especially combined with the agitated antennae and pointed stare.  Kent's not sure he likes it.  
  
"Please don't, I'm not your type," he requests out loud, stupidly.  
  
The moth seems to have no regard for personal space.  It suddenly lunges, flailing heavily, struggling to find a direct flight plan but nonetheless meandering awkwardly toward Kent's head.   
  
"STAY OUTTA MY HOUSE, SEYMOUR - "  
  
Behind him, he hears the staccato thumping of four furry feet and the excited chirruping noises of their owner.  He feels air moving too close to his skin, is vaguely aware of another soft thud when a whiskered missile completes an impressive vertical leap, landing expertly on the balcony floor.  
  
When he glances down again, Kit's got the hawk moth pinned under both front paws, her luminous eyes smiling mischievously.  Of course.  He left the sliding glass door cracked open.  
  
Kent's grin turns into a snort; the snort turns into a full-on belly laugh.  He leans his head away, lets his snapback tumble against the wall adjacent, squeezes his arms around his ribs to brace against the earthquake of his own relief.  His ribs ache _so much_ , but he can't stop.  He laughs until his face hurts.  He laughs until saltwater creeps from the corners of his eyes.  He laughs until he's gasping for breath, completely spent on emotion.  
  
Kit stares at him.  
  
Kent snorts again, thinking of her paw defiantly smashed against his face.  He totally deserved that.  
  
He polishes off his beer. Stands, stretches, yawns.  
  
"Come on, Kit."  
  
"Mewwr?"  
  
Kent goes to the hall closet and extracts the largest pouch of catnip he can find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kent thinks he's right. Jack thinks he's right. Swoops knows HE'S right, because communication is awesome and Jeff freakin' Troy is awesome. That's my characterization of him, anyway, and it'll be interesting if/when we learn any more about him.
> 
> I dunno. I think my kink is people being happy. I JUST WANT EVERYONE TO BE HAPPY.
> 
> I...wrote this, and I'm thinking of playing with continued plot development in this/my variation of the universe. I don't know. Maybe Kent wants closure with Jack, maybe it's easier for him now because maybe he -likes???- Swoops, or maybe Swoops and Kit should just ride off into the sunset and fight all the bad guys with laser guns.
> 
> Up next: Kit Purrson finds peace, and reigns over her kingdom with grace and dignity.


	8. Epilogue: "You're Still Here?  It's Over, Go Home"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the two of them against the world.

She forgives him.  
  
Kit sprawls across the man's belly while he rubs little circles behind her ears, just like old times.  They're reclining sleepily against the soft, squishy pillows of the sofa.  The man has wrapped himself in blankets, which Kit finds very cozy indeed.  She enjoys making miniature shelters out of the fabric, poking her eyes out between folds and pretending to be a turtle.  
  
She purrs thunderously and presses her head hard against the man's side, leaning into his hand.  If she drools a bit, well.  It'll mostly go unnoticed.  
  
He talks to her now and then, his voice soft and warm like it used to be.  
  
The fear smell isn't as strong anymore, either.  Kit paws lazily at the man's wrist and holds him still for a moment, long enough to bathe some of the smell off with her tongue.  She's quite certain it's getting better, but she wishes he'd do a better job of taking care of himself.  
  
There are pictures changing on the big screen in front of them: a bunch of these men, gliding like birds on a white surface, slapping at something small with sticks like the one Kit's housemate keeps in his room.  She wonders if they're attacking a small rodent.  Do these people not know how to hunt, at all?  
  
Silly two-legged creatures.  
  
The man's earthy green eyes droop closed, and he begins to snore a little bit, his breathing relaxing into a steady rhythm.  Kit burrows contentedly into the curve of his arm, settling in for the night.  
  
He's a _very_ silly two-legged creature, but she loves him.  
  
It's the two of them against the world.  
  
  
  
Kit dreams of annihilating moths the size of dinner plates.  
  
Kent dreams of meeting an old friend in the desert, and shaking hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, yes, but I couldn't stop myself from ending it this way. It needed to happen, and I think we can all agree that Kit is the real winner here. KIT PURRSON 2020
> 
> Chapter titles are movie quotes! The full list of references, some of which get full nods in the story, and all of which were chosen carefully:  
> 1\. The Mummy (1999)  
> 2\. Drive  
> 3\. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas  
> 4\. Mad Max: Fury Road  
> 5\. Slap Shot  
> 6\. Swingers  
> 7\. Midnight in Paris  
> 8\. Ferris Bueller's Day Off
> 
> The title of the epilogue may or may not be a clue to something I'd like to write later. I'm just saying, Kit has a history of sleeping in Kent's nasty hockey bag, and that thing travels.


End file.
